


it might be over soon

by zach_stone



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Hermann "Cocky Drunk" Gottlieb, M/M, Making Out, Newt "Sloppy Drunk" Geiszler, Pre-Canon, of the fondest kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: To celebrate a victory, Newt steals a bottle of booze and he and Hermann drink, argue, and maybe finally act on their feelings.





	it might be over soon

**Author's Note:**

> title courtesy of the bon iver song "22 (OVER S∞∞N)" that i was listening to on repeat while writing this

The conversation starts, as it often does, with an argument about the value of their respective works. It’s a rare moment of downtime, and after the successful takedown of a particularly nasty kaiju, there’s been an air of celebration in the Shatterdome. There are two occasions where Newt can convince Hermann to drink with him: celebrating a victory, or commiserating a particularly difficult loss. It’s been far too much of the latter lately, so when Newt appeared in the lab brandishing a bottle of fireball, Hermann only wrinkled his nose and acquiesced. He grumbled that Newt brought “frat party fare” and Newt grumbled back that there wasn’t much left and next time _Hermann_ could pilfer the booze if he’s so picky, let’s see him fight off a hoard of rangers for the good shit — and then they dragged their desk chairs into a corner facing each other so they could pass the bottle back and forth. Newt took the first swig and his whole face screwed up at the taste. He made “blech” noises and shuddered before wiggling the bottle in Hermann’s direction.

“Just one,” Hermann sniffed, like he always did.

Twenty minutes later, the whiskey is more than half gone, and Newt is well on his way to drunk, gesticulating wildly with one fist clenched around the neck of the bottle. “I’m just saying — _I’m just saying_ , at least what I do has something tangible at the end of it. I’m discovering the truth about kaiju, know your enemy and all that. You can’t physically touch an equation, is all I’m saying. By all means, though, throw your chalkboards at the breach. Real helpful.”

He’s only goading because Hermann is all too easily goaded. He knows Hermann’s work is important. He also knows that if they don’t scream at each other on a regular basis about _something_ then they’ll both have nervous breakdowns. This is how emotionally stunted super geniuses look out for each other, apparently.  
  
Hermann, predictably, takes the bait. He bristles, snatching the bottle out of Newt’s sweaty grip. “My work,” he says through his teeth, “is responsible for our understanding of the breach, our ability to have even a _semblance_ of warning and preparation before a kaiju appears. And I don’t suppose I need to remind you that my numbers are responsible for the programming of jaegers?” He takes a long pull from the bottle and doesn’t even grimace, which Newt finds extremely unfair. “Numbers, Newton, are the building blocks of our universe, of _every_ universe. My work is just as much about discovery of truth as yours.”  
  
Newt raises his eyebrows, trying and failing to suppress a smirk. He’s about to point out that Hermann basically just called their work equally important, when Hermann’s expression turns sly. He takes another sip and says primly, “Besides, my methods have something yours never will: precedence. Numbers have been proven throughout history to solve problems and find answers. Throwing alien viscera around our lab, on the other hand, well...” He spreads his hands, the bottle dangling between his thumb and index finger.  
  
Newt laughs and kicks half-heartedly at Hermann’s chair leg. “You’re extra annoying when you’re smug, you know that? It’s super unappealing.” He makes grabby hands and Hermann passes him the bottle, rolling his eyes. His expression is stuck somewhere between irritated and fond, and Newt wonders if Hermann is more drunk than he’s letting on.

The alcohol is making them both warm, and Newt has loosened his tie and shoved his sleeves up past his elbows. Hermann’s shed his offensively boring cardigan and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and Newt has been covertly staring at the hollow of his throat on and off all evening. He hasn’t missed the way Hermann’s eyes have been passing over his forearms every time he makes a gesture, either. This is something that happens often, usually when they’re drinking, and it’s an unspoken agreement to never bring it up. Another tally on the “emotionally stunted super genius” scoreboard, Newt thinks to himself.

He sips the whiskey, winces, and stares off across the lab, watching a couple kaiju organs bobbing in tanks on the other side. Hermann always insists they drink on _his_ side of the lab, saying that sitting right next to the kaiju specimens puts him off. Which is completely melodramatic, if you ask Newt. He kind of like the ambiance of alien guts.

“Newton?” Hermann’s voice shakes him from his musings, and he glances back at his companion. Hermann is regarding him curiously. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Newt assures him. He looks down the neck of the bottle, swirling the remaining whiskey around. “What d’you think you’ll do, if we really win this thing?”

“When,” Hermann says. Newt looks up at him, confused. “Not _if_ we win, _when_ we win,” Hermann explains. There’s a conviction in his voice that only seems partially influenced by the alcohol. Hermann has faith in his numbers, in their ability to save the world. Newt admires that. Envies it. He wishes he could feel such confidence in anything they’re doing here, even after a victory like today. People often mistake Newt’s recklessness for optimism. Honestly, he’s been operating on a “we could be obliterated at any moment, so who gives a shit” frame of mind for years at this point. And if his self-destructive tendencies fuel scientific progress, who’s complaining?

Nevertheless, he concedes. “Sure. When we win. I know what _I’m_ gonna do — gonna get the band back together.” He grins, tilting his head back to pour more whiskey down his throat. “I ever tell you I was in a band, Hermann?”

“You have,” Hermann says, nose scrunching in distaste. “Several times. Unfortunately.”

Newt pretends he didn’t hear the insult. “What about you?” he asks, offering the bottle. “What do you wanna do?”

Hermann accepts the booze and takes a thoughtful sip. After a moment, he says, “I think I’ll get a cat.”

Newt sputters out a laugh. “A _cat?_ " he repeats. Hermann glares at him. “That’s — wow, dude. Big post-saving-the-world plans, that’s very ambitious.” He finds the idea of Hermann owning a cat ridiculously endearing, and adorably predictable. He can’t stop smiling, and Hermann shoves the bottle back into his hands, looking like he’s trying to maintain an irritated front and utterly failing.

“That’s right,” he huffs. “I’ll need _something_ to annoy me without you around, won’t I?”

“You gonna throw pieces of chalk at your cat, too? Because I think that’s probably considered animal abuse.” Newt’s smile is fading as he fully processes what Hermann said. He’s not _wrong_ , after all — when (if) they really do close the breach and end this thing once and for all, there won’t be much reason for the two of them to stick around together. It’s not that he hasn’t ever considered the truth of the matter; it’s more that he hasn’t allowed himself to imagine an ending at all. “I guess you’ll be glad to finally get away from me after all these years,” he adds. His voice is quieter and less joking than he intended.

Hermann doesn’t say anything, but he scoots his chair forward until they’re closer to each other, and he eases the bottle out of Newt’s grip, setting it aside on the floor. Newt follows the motion with his eyes, and then looks back up at Hermann. The energy in between them is more serious than it’s been all evening, and Hermann’s gaze is far too intense for someone who’s had nearly half a bottle of fireball in less than an hour. The only evidence of his drinking is in the slight flush across his skin, creeping up from the exposed skin at his collar all the way to his cheeks. Newt thinks suddenly that Hermann looks incredibly kissable right now. All he’d have to do is lean in and —

Before he can overthink it, that’s what he does. He tips forward, lifting out of his chair somewhat, and slams his mouth against Hermann’s. It’s messy and impulsive, and Hermann doesn’t really do anything but sit there, so Newt pulls back, pressing his hands into the arms of Hermann’s chair. Hermann is even redder now, staring at Newt with his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide.

 _Well, shit_ , Newt thinks to himself. Now he’s gone and completely ruined the mood. It’s okay, though. He can fix this. He can just blame it on the alcohol and laugh it off and Hermann will grumble at him and their modus operandi of never acknowledging feelings will live on until they’re (potentially) destroyed by giant monsters from another dimension.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but suddenly Hermann’s hand is on the back of his neck, his long fingers surprisingly cold and firm, and he’s pulling Newt back in again, kissing him hard on the mouth. They both taste cinnamony from the fireball, and Hermann is kissing him _with tongue_ and Newt thinks maybe this is the best moment of his entire life. He wants to get even closer, maybe climb into Hermann’s lap, but he’s wary of the strain that might put on his bad leg. Hermann makes the decision for him by slapping impatiently at Newt’s thigh until Newt straddles him, settling carefully with his hands on Hermann’s shoulders and barely breaking the kiss to breathe. Hermann’s hand slides up to tangle in Newt’s hair, and Newt can’t help the noise that escapes his mouth at that. He kisses a wet trail down Hermann’s jaw to his throat, and feels Hermann exhale shakily as he sort of pets Newt’s head.

“Newton,” Hermann murmurs, like his name is a prayer. It makes Newt’s eyes prickle even as it stirs something warm and low in his belly. Hermann tugs him back up for a proper kiss, fingertips dragging across the stubble of Newt’s unshaven cheek. He cups Newt’s face, leaning back to look at him with something like wonder in his eyes. Newt grins, blushing under the attention.  

“Hey,” he says. Hermann kisses his lips, then his cheek, then the spot just below his ear. His teeth graze Newt’s skin for a moment, and Newt makes another embarrassing noise. “Jesus, dude.” Hermann is smirking when he pulls away again. “You’re a really good kisser,” Newt says dumbly.

Hermann looks all too pleased with himself. “Yes,” he says, smoothing his hand down Newt’s chest. “And _you_ are very sloppy.”

Newt gapes at him indignantly. “I’m _drunk_!” he exclaims. “If I was sober I’d be rocking your world right now.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to prove that to me later,” Hermann says. There’s a challenge in his voice, and a question. Their “emotionally stunted super geniuses who never acknowledge their feelings” status hangs in the balance.

“You want a kiss-off, I’ll give you a kiss-off,” Newt says firmly. “In fact, I’ll kiss you every day until you admit that I am the superior kisser.”

Hermann smiles, and it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and Newt just _has_ to kiss him again when he looks like that. When they part, Hermann is gazing at him with unabashed affection.

“You know, I wasn’t completely honest before,” Hermann says softly, after a moment. “When you asked what I wanted to do, after this is all over. This… _this_ is what I want.”

“Why wait?” Newt asks breathlessly. “We could be dead tomorrow —” Hermann frowns, but Newt presses on — “we could, and maybe we won’t be, but we might as well spend as much time making out as possible, just in case, right?”

Hermann regards him with some amusement. “You are ridiculous,” he says. “But for once, not incorrect.”

“Haha, nice,” Newt says, grinning. Hermann runs a hand through Newt’s hair again, though this time with the intention of fixing it rather than mussing it up. Newt hums and closes his eyes at the touch.

“We will find the solution,” Hermann says after a moment of stroking Newt’s hair. Newt blinks his eyes open. Hermann slides his hand down to rest against Newt’s cheek again. He sounds so earnest, it makes Newt’s heart ache. “Together, you and I will discover the answer to this problem. It’s out there, waiting for us to find it. I know that it is.”

Newt turns his head to kiss Hermann’s palm. He’s pretty damn sure he loves this man more than anyone or anything else on the planet, and has for a long time. He decides that’s a confession that can wait until they’re both sober, though. Instead, he says with a smile, “You know, Hermann, I think you just implied there’s value in my work.”

Hermann rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, shut up,” before kissing Newt firmly on the mouth. “You absolutely insufferable little man.”

Tomorrow, and every day after that until this thing ends one way or another, Newt knows that he will almost certainly do something foolish and brilliant, and Hermann will yell at him for it, and maybe the world will end — but maybe it won’t. Hermann believes that they’ll save the day, and for a moment Newt lets himself really believe it, too. They could be heroes, rockstars, and wouldn’t that be something? Hell, if they can get over their emotional constipation long enough to make out, they can probably do anything.

“You know what, let’s do it,” he says to Hermann. “Let’s save the world.”

“That is sort of our job, yes,” Hermann says with a wry smile. “I’m glad you’re amenable to it.” His hands drift down Newt’s sides, pausing to squeeze at his waist. “If we stay like this much longer I don’t think either of us will be in any shape for world-saving, however.”

Newt smirks at him. “You’re gonna have _such_ a hangover in the morning. Sucker.”

“Newton, last time you drank fireball you had to wear sunglasses indoors and made me keep all the lights off. If anyone’s going to suffer tomorrow, it will be you,” Hermann says irritably. “We both know I hold my liquor better than you.”

“Yeah, but fireball is like… poison,” Newt says. “You know it contains an antifreeze ingredient?” Hermann makes to shove him off his lap, and Newt laughs, clutching Hermann’s shoulders for support. “Okay, okay. We’ll suffer together, how about that?”

“I suppose we will,” Hermann says, still sounding vaguely annoyed, but his thumbs are tracing small circles at Newt’s hips, so he can’t be too mad.

“Do you wanna stay with me tonight?” Newt blurts. Hermann raises his eyebrows, and Newt hurries to continue, “Just to sleep! We’re both pretty drunk, like, I don’t want to — I mean, if we’re gonna _sleep together_ sleep together, I wanna do it properly. Not like this.” He doesn’t miss the blush rising in Hermann’s cheeks, but he’s pretty sure he’s blushing, too. “Anyway. I just thought. Never mind.”

“Newton,” Hermann interrupts. “I’d like that very much.”

“Oh,” Newt squeaks. “Cool.”

They disentangle from each other and Newt stashes the remains of the fireball in his desk drawer. They stagger off to Newt’s quarters, and by then they’re both so tired that Newt can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed about stripping to his undershirt and boxers with Hermann sitting right there, similarly dressed down. They fall into bed side-by-side, and Hermann is snoring softly within minutes. Newt curls close to him, mind pleasantly fuzzy with exhaustion and alcohol, and presses a clumsy kiss to Hermann’s temple before drifting off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> fireball is objectively terrible and can barely be called whiskey but it's tasty so i drink it anyway. 
> 
> hmu on twitter @queensuperjelly or tumblr @joshuawashinton if u so desire! thanks for reading as always!! <3


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